


2am underpants cake

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cake, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 14:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: •It’s 2 am but you’re craving cake and we’re both up anyway so let’s bake in our underwear AUfrom that established au prompts list that's everywhere for example if you want a link:http://gaybrielreyyes.tumblr.com/post/119898437912/established-relationship-aus





	2am underpants cake

Athos has insomnia. He is used to periods of no sleep by now and takes advantage of the extra hours to catch up on work he usually prefers to ignore. Illustration is one of the most fun jobs he’s ever had, especially now he’s done sufficient networking and got a good portfolio of published work and can do freelance, but the paperwork for his finances is boring, looking for jobs he likes the sound of is boring, catching up on emails with his network of people is boring. It is definitely the kind of work to do at two am after a week of very little sleep. Athos emails Anne Royal about a recent bit of work he did for her, a quick follow up and thanks for payment, and wonders if he’s going to be able to sleep soon. He lies down on the sofa and looks at the ceiling for a bit. He’s still doing this when Porthos wanders out of the bedroom, sleepy and rumpled. Athos watches as Porthos moves clumsily through the livingroom, hand against the wall, not bothering with lights. He trips on the rug and then misses the kitchen door, getting it the second try. Athos considers going to put the lights on, see what Porthos is doing up. He doesn’t though, instead watching as Porthos rummages through the cupboards and fridge and then stands in the middle of the kitchen, looking sleepy. Athos gets up and goes over. 

 

“It’s two o’clock,” he says quietly. Porthos starts and yells in shock, bouncing off the table and clutching at Athos’s shoulder. “Oops.”

 

“Why are you creepily whispering at me?!” Porthos says, not quietly at all and not so sleepy anymore. “Jesus Athos! You trying to give me a heart attack? Feel my heart. You know I have a weak heart.”

 

“You do not,” Athos says, pressing a hand to Porthos’s chest at his insistence. His heart isn’t beating very fast, he’s making a big fuss. “Your heart’s fine.”

 

“It’s a weak heart,” Porthos insists, quite nonsensically.

 

“Why are you awake at 2am?” Athos asks, going back to the subject at hand. 

 

“I wanted cake,” Porthos says, looking sadly around the kitchen, empty of cake. 

 

“For your weak heart,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah. Cake’s good for the heart,” Porthos says, lips twitching but still managing to be sad and droopy. “How are the taxes?”

 

“Not doing them,” Athos says, groaning. He is  _ supposed  _ to be doing his taxes but they’re confusing and he’s tired. He rests his head against Porthos’s chest. His bare chest. Athos pulls back to look. Porthos is wearing nothing but a pair of slightly sad looking boxers. “What happened to your pyjamas?”

 

Porthos always wears pyjamas in bed, even when it’s sweltering hot and tonight it’s quite chilly. Porthos looks down at himself too, and looks bewildered. 

 

“Fairie’s took ‘em,” Porthos decides. “Stole them for the silk.”

 

“You don’t have silk pyjamas.”

 

“I do too. Red ones. They’re luxurious. I want cake Athos.”

 

“I haven’t got any.”

 

Porthos  gives a mighty sigh and sits at the table, lips twitching again. He scratches his shoulder and looks up at Athos, waiting to see what happens next. Athos looks around, then perches on the edge of the table. HE’S sensibly dressed- he has fairly new underwear and a dressing gown on. It’s Aramis’s dressing gown and made of some kind of floaty floral material but still. 

 

“We could make a cake,” Athos suggests. 

 

“It’s two in the morning,” Porthos says, laughing. 

 

“I’m up, you’re up, you want cake. Why not?” Athos says. 

 

Porthos considers this, probably thinking of all the very sensible reasons why not. Athos goes to put the light on and start getting things out of cupboards before Porthos can make one of his lists. Porthos leaves him to it for a bit, sleepy again, resting his cheek on his hand and watching. Then he gets up and comes to look at Athos’s collection of ingredients with a snort. 

 

“What kind of cake, exactly, are you making?” Porthos saying, holding a jar of jam in one hand and a packet of digestive biscuits in the other, giving the ice cream and cheddar cheese Athos got out a bemused look. Athos shrugs. Porthos starts putting everything away again and Athos trails after him, yawning. “Maybe you’re sleepy.”

 

“No,” Athos says, leaning against Porthos’s back while Porthos beats eggs in a bowl. Athos isn’t sure when he cracked them or got them out even. It’s comfy against Porthos’s shoulder. 

 

“Ok,” Porthos says. 

 

Athos stays leant against him while he whips the egg whites into a stiff froth, creams butter and sugar, adds the yolks and flour and then folds everything together. It doesn’t take long before Porthos dislodges Athos so he can get out a tin and slide a cake into the oven. He gives Athos the bowl and Athos sits at the table with the cake batter getter outer, the soft rubber collecting up all the ends of the batter. Athos eats it contentedly while Porthos makes thick buttercream icing and gets the cooling rack out. 

 

“I can’t believe I’m making you a cake at three in the morning,” Porthos mutters, coming to confiscate the bowl. “I meant you to wash that, not make yourself sick with raw egg.”

 

“I like the batter,” Athos says. “I always lick the bowl.”

 

“You aren’t always running on lack of sleep, coffee, and not much else. When did you last eat?” Porthos asks. Athos shrugs. Porthos gives him a mug of something. “Sip that.”

 

It’s soup, thick and warm. When Athos is done with it and looks up Porthos has the cake out of the oven, two halves of it cooling, a bowl of icing and a jar of jam and a punnet of strawberries laid out neatly waiting. Porthos is wiping down surfaces. Athos gets up and wraps his arms around Porthos from behind, yawning, resting his head on Porthos’s shoulder again and shuffling about after him. Porthos snorts and dumps the cloth in the sink, shaking himself loose. 

 

“I’m going to bed,” Porthos says.

 

“We didn’t eat the cake,” Athos says, sadly. 

 

“We’ll have it for breakfast,” Porthos says. “I’ve got the day off tomorrow.”

 

“Oh ok,” Athos says. 

 

He trails Porthos to turn the light off and then to the bathroom (Porthos shuts him out with a roll of the eyes while he pisses) and then to Porthos’s bedroom. Athos’s room is a hell of tangled blankets and no sleep. Porthos’s is warm and cosy and with clean sheets and things. Athos lies in Porthos’s bed and Porthos looks down at him, face a picture of amusement. 

 

“You’re sleeping here, huh?” Porthos says, stretching out beside Athos and then flopping over to rest his head on Athos’s chest. “Ok.”

 

Athos strokes his hair. He’s put pyjamas on again at some point, which is nice. Porthos likes pyjamas. Athos falls asleep and dreams about pyjamas coming alive and wandering about the world searching for Porthos, glomping on him and making him bigger and bigger until he’s just a big ball of pyjamas, heavy and squashing Athos, sitting spherical on Athos’s stomach. He wakes to find Porthos lying across Athos’s stomach, reading. Athos nudges him experimentally and Porthos gets off him, sitting up with a smile. 

 

“Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to eat the cake you took ages to wake up,” Porthos says. 

 

“Why were you lying on me?” Athos asks, rubbing his stomach. “I now have to pee really badly.”

 

“And yet you’re not moving,” Porthos says, pushing Athos’s hip with his foot. Athos gets up reluctantly. “Cake, in the kitchen.”

 

“And coffee,” Athos grumbles, shuffling out. 

 

Porthos does not provide coffee. He presents the cake, fully iced and decorated with slices of strawberry, with a flourish. Athos ignores it and makes himself coffee as black as he can. Porthos steals it and sips it then hands it back with a grimace, refusing to give Athos cake until Athos makes suitably awed sounds and makes Porthos better coffee. 

 

“Thanks,” Athos says, when he has coffee and a slice of the cake in front of him, around a mouthful of it. “Mm, good cake.”

 

“Three am underpants cake,” Porthos says, taking a bite. 

 

“Ew,” Athos says. “Don’t call it that.”

 

“But that’s what it is,” Porthos says. “I like strawberries.”

 

“And cake,” Athos says, nodding. “I slept.”

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, smiling at him. 

 

“Thanks for the company.”

 

“Wasn’t much of a choice,” Porthos says. “You cracked and separated the eggs then went to sleep on my shoulder. It was either put them in the fridge and drag you to bed or make cake. Making cake seemed the more fun option.”

 

“Ah, I did? Sorry,” Athos says. “I was tired.”

 

“It’s ok, I like cake,” Porthos says, helping himself to a second slice. 

 

Athos finishes his first and then watches Porthos for a while. There’s a tiredness about him that Athos observes carefully. 

 

“Why were you awake in the middle of the night?” Athos asks. “Cake cravings?”

 

“No, I missed you,” Porthos says. “You’ve been sleeping on the sofa.”

 

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Athos says. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Appreciate it. Still missed you. I was dreaming, they were really real and really odd. I like waking up with you there.”

 

“You can always come cram on the sofa with me,” Athos says. 

 

It makes Porthos smile, warm and sunny, as if that was just the generous invitation he was waiting for. He takes a third slice of cake. 

 

“Or I could just make cake,” Porthos says. 

 

“Or that,” Athos agrees. “I’m not against it as a plan. You make good cake.”

 

“Don’t I?” Porthos agrees. “Another coffee?”

 

“Mm, please, is Aramis home today?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Porthos says. “His pilgrimage took longer than he planned because he got a stomach bug.”

 

“Oh, is he ok?”

 

“Fine. Just ate stupid,” Porthos says, rolling his eyes. Then he smiles. “Let’s eat all the cake before he gets back and get him to make us that chocolate one he does.”

 

“Ohhh that is a wonderful plan,” Athos says, approvingly. 

 

Aramis makes fantastic chocolate cake. 


End file.
